


like you're the most precious thing i've ever touched (and i never plan on letting go)

by Catherines_Collections



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Demons, Haunting, Insomnia, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, M/M, Paranoia, Ryan is far too curious for his own good, Shane is a mystery to all but himself, antagonizing demons is all fun and games until someone stops being able to sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 10:27:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12885909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catherines_Collections/pseuds/Catherines_Collections
Summary: Shane laughs, tells himyou’ll live, and that’s the trick Ryan thinks, because he never tells him how.





	like you're the most precious thing i've ever touched (and i never plan on letting go)

**Author's Note:**

> This idea was inspired by user @thescrewtapedemos work **crossroads** , which is amazing.
> 
> I own nothing.

Brent leaves.

And something in Ryan feels mishapen with it, bruised, like a patch of skin when it's been pressed too hard, a bone when it’s been hit too many times.

None of it is fair and he just stands there watching as Brent shrugs with a half-hearted frown saying, “Sorry, man- got transferred.” Like one of Ryan’s favorite projects isn’t slipping through his fingertips right before his eyes and it’s his fault.

“Yeah,” Ryan supplies lamely, the fight in him drained out by weariness, and something too close to actual sadness threatens to invade his chest. It circulates around the bruised feeling, black circling around dotted yellow over and over again. “What can you do?”

Brent pats him on the shoulder as he passes, offering one last tight-lipped smile as he leaves from cleaning out the cubicle next to Ryan’s. Ryan offers one back and tries to spend the rest of his day working at his desk decidedly not thinking about what the empty cubicle next to him means, or that he’s possibly just lost the what he’s wanted since he was eighteen through a few emails.

He closes his eyes and takes a breath. When he releases it he opens his eyes to a blank computer screen and idea.

 

.

 

When he wakes up the next morning the first thing he does is check his email.

He scans through the junk mail, heart racing as he clicks on the one addressed from the head director over him. He scans the lines and finds  _new co-host_  and _to be revealed soon_ right above the signature.

He feels giddy.

 

.

 

The next week someone new moves into Brent’s old cubicle.

“Madej. Shane, Madej,” The new guy says, wide smile on his face and holding out a hand. Even sitting down there’s an obvious height difference.

Ryan offers his own hand to shake, plays along, “Bergara. Ryan Bergara.”

Shane smiles, “Well it’s nice to meet you, Bergara. I think this’ll be fun.” His smile widens, “Fair warning though, I don't believe.”

Ryan smiles back, nods, says, “Yeah, I think so too. And don’t worry, I’ll make you see.”

Shane tilts his head back and laughs.

 

.

 

The first video he and Shane do together, they visit the Sallie house.

One of the producers said it’d be a good idea, said it’s been one of the most requested anyway, and they make it part of a three-part episode to help warm the viewers up to Shane.

(“The dolls were way worse,” Shane says as they board the plane leaving New Mexico.

Ryan shuts his window, and tries to will away an oncoming migraine he suspects is from lack of sleep.

“Shut up, Shane,” he says, doubting Shane hears him over the roaring of plane engines.)

Ryan’s hands are shaking, and his migraine hasn’t improved much since the plane, so he stuffs his hands in his jacket, fakes a shiver and tries to blame it on the cold. Shane still notices, however.

“What,” Shane starts, shuffling his feet on the sidewalk as he faces Ryan with a small smile, “are you afraid the big bad demon is going to get you?”

Ryan shakes his head, bites his tongue, “ _Haha_. Real funny, dude. I actually hate this. I don’t fuck with demons.”

Shane just laughs.

The Uber pulls up a moment later, and they pile in and start to set up their cameras.

Other than camera and filming questions, they don’t talk in the car.

 

.

 

“What scares you the most?” Shane asks him one evening, both of them working too late and the bright lights of other buildings shine through the windows of their own, ensuring that sleep is not a possibility.

Ryan does a double take from where he’s positioned in front of his computer, watching Shane’s face shift from serious to playful and back again.

And maybe it’s the moonlight blending with the artificial lights hanging above them, or the fact that it’s nearly ten and he hasn’t had a decent cup of coffee since he woke up at six, but then he’s wheezing out a laugh, and rolling his chair out from beneath his desk, abandoning the project he’s spent nearly seven hours on in favor of turning to fully face Shane.

“Demons,” he says, no hesitation, mind still nervously humming from the project he’s been working on for nearly a week.

“Demons,” Shane repeats, though the word is shaken and deconstructed at the edges by poorly hidden laughter. Ryan thinks maybe he’d be mad at him, if the clock wasn’t edging too close to midnight and Shane’s laughter didn’t sound like a familiar note he didn’t know he’d been missing until it fell into place.

He isn’t mad, not even hurt where he thinks he maybe should be. He settles with a loud huff and falls back into his chair.

Shane shakes his head, not even trying to hide the laughter anymore, instead allowing it to freely tinge his words, “Demons. I don’t know why I expected anything less.”

Ryan scoffs, spins around in his chair until he’s once again facing a smirking Shane, and says, “Well then what are you afraid of, king of skeptics?”

Shane places a hand over his heart and with a mock serious face, says, “‘Tis a title I wear with pride,” and Ryan wants to kick him. So he does.

Ryan kicks his chair hard as he can, laughing when Shane jerks to the side with it.

“Seriously,” Ryan starts again, adamant where he wasn’t before, and Shane must see his determination now with the way he falls back into his chair, giving Ryan his full attention. Something sharp runs up Ryan’s spine at the act, but he ignores it, “if it’s not demons, which it should be you ignorant cynic, what are you most afraid of?”  

It’s silent between them while Shane thinks.

The humming of the computers and industrial lights blend with the sounds of the city echoing just beyond the windows around them, and Ryan thinks he can even hear the clock near the exit of their office ticking. Ryan looks briefly out of the corner of his eye and sees his computer screen has gone dark from neglect, but he can’t bring himself to care.

When Shane finally does speak again, his voice isn’t so much an interruption of silence as it is an addition to it.

“Loss. Death, maybe.” Shane says, face serious and body too tight for how easily he shrugs after, like his answer is that simple and Ryan’s mind hasn’t just filled with a million questions due to it.

But then Shane’s face twists, and where seriousness once ruled is replaced by mirth as a smirk grows on his lips, “Of course that’s _after_ being forced to do heroine, ‘cause, yeah, that’s fucking terrifying.”

The questions in Ryan’s brain redirect and continue to flood in even after he smacks Shane’s arm, grumbling but wheezing slightly, the noise blending with Shane’s laugh.

They leave a little after that, projects sent in and computers finally sent in. Shane calls an Uber, Ryan walks to his car.

When he gets home, Ryan falls into bed and doesn’t think about any of it.

 

.

 

When they get to the Sallie house, Ryan’s hands are still shaking. He doesn’t know how to make them stop.

He nearly drops a camera before Shane grabs it and rights it in his grasp. He doesn’t immediately let go of where he’s holding Ryan’s hand.

“Hey,” Shane starts, dumb smile still in place and looking far too relaxed, “it’ll be fine. You’ll live, I promise.”

Shane lets his hand go, and reaches for the door.

Ryan feels his heartbeat in his chest and takes a breath.

 

.

 

“Loss,” Ryan says, beer in hand, brain too active, and meeting Shane’s gaze. It’s a Friday night after work, and some of the other employees from Buzzfeed had met them for a short celebration of the weekend at the bar. But as the clock edged closer to one, people started heading out until it now it’s just the two of them left.

The TV above the bar glitches, and Ryan watches the colors change out of the corner of his eye.

Shane raises an eyebrow, sets his beer down on the counter next to Ryan’s.

“Loss,” he repeats.

“You,” Ryan starts, stops, tries to organize his thoughts and get his words right. Questions itch at the back of his mind, and he wants to say a million things at once, but context, yes context.

“At the office,” he says, trying not to feel like he’s just broken something between them, recalling the night, fresh and new and untouched. The humming of abandon computers, and a night too light for how dark it was.

“When you asked my greatest fear,” Ryan corrects, not meeting Shane’s eyes, and wondering later if his sweater will show evidence of where Shane’s stare has burnt holes into him.

He takes a quick swig of his beer, and then twirls the top of the bottle through his fingers, “I said demons, and you- you said loss.”

He looks up and meets Shane’s eyes, and suddenly the bar feels miles away as he’s struck with the intimacy of their position: Ryan leaning forward onto the bar and Shane leaning into him.

Something about it all has Ryan feeling torn open. Exposed, he thinks, that’s what this feeling must be- sheer exposure. His insides spilling out into the light where they’ve always been kept in the dark, shame mixing with intrigue blending with sheer curiosity: breaking through the fog of the unspoken.

Shane’s voice cuts through the atmosphere.

“You ask a lot of questions,” he says, and Ryan- Ryan expects anger behind the words, frustration at Ryan’s breaking boundaries, a lecture on the importance of privacy, a disconnect for naming the unspoken.

He doesn’t expect Shane to look at him almost fondly, as if Ryan’s missing something, like his curiosity is more of an amusement and less of an invasion.

“You never answer them,” Ryan supplies, too late to bite his tongue and mouth too quick for his own good. He wants to blame it on the drink, desperate to blame something other than the state of ease Shane slips him into, but he’s never been the best at lying to himself.

Shane lets out a soft laugh and Ryan watches as he fingers the rim of his bottle. He shrugs, looks up and meets Ryan’s eyes with a small smile, “It’s my specialty.”

Ryan doesn’t correct him.

 

.

 

Shane laughs, tells him _you’ll live_ , and that’s the trick Ryan thinks, because he never tells him how.

 

.

 

The demon turns the lights on and off, again and again. Three times in the kitchen, and once in the basement.

Ryan screams the first few times, hands shaking and sweating, feeling too tight in his skin. The house seems to close in around him, walls shifting and something leaving an iron aftertaste in his mouth.

Shane laughs - at his scream, at the light and the walls and the shadows Ryan claims to see - and Ryan wants to smack him, knock some sense into him, tell him: _I was so right and this fucking sucks,_ but--

The flashlight stops turning on. And Ryan’s skin loosens where it was stretched too tight over his bones before.

The walls stop enclosing and the air in the house eases up, lightens, somehow, where it was heavy before.

Shane’s laughter echoes throughout the house. Ryan closes his eyes.

 

.

 

Ryan doesn’t sleep in the Sallie house.

Instead he watches the walls for shadows, keeps the holy water Father Thomas gifted him within reach, and waits. To leave, for the inevitable, whichever comes first.

He places his sleeping bag as close to Shane as he can, feels every breath and movement against his back, and it’s a comfort.

He still has the migraine: an insane amount of pressure pushing on his forehead and eyes. The physical ache doesn’t blend well with the emotional and mental.

He doesn’t trust his mind right now, but being in this house is somehow worse than whatever tricks his mind is playing on him inside his head.

He wakes Shane up, makes a deal, tells him, “I’ll be quiet for three minutes at the witching hour, and then we’re leaving,” and Shane nods: he mocks but he agrees, and that’s all Ryan needs.

They leave around three a.m. Ryan runs out of the house with Shane following slower behind him.

Shane falls asleep next to him on the drive back, and Ryan’s thankful he isn’t awake to notice how tight his fingers curl around the steering wheel.

 

.

 

Ryan dreams of empty fields, grass covered by a fog so thick he can’t see anything further than a foot ahead of him.

He turns around, spins in a circle, tries to find where he is, looks for anything other than grass and fog and dirt.

He spins and spins and spins.

Somewhere, he swears he can hear a voice laughing.

 

.

 

It’s three in the morning on Saturday when he wakes up drenched in sweat.

He calls Shane, says, “I’ve been having dreams,” into the receiver, speaking over Shane’s groggy hello.

“About?” Shane asks, and Ryan can hear his eyebrows rising over the phone even through a yawn. He thinks maybe he’d be laughing if he wasn’t shaking so hard.

He doesn’t know what to call it, to name the thing that won’t show itself, so he instead he says, “I don’t know, it’s-. They’re-,” stops, sighs, and settles on, “it’s like something’s fucking with me.”

Shane sighs over the phone.

“Ryan,” Shane’s voice says, coated with static but still familiar, “they’re just dreams.”

And Ryan wants to scream, _are they really?_ into the phone, wants to laugh about the hours of sleep lost since the Sallie house, wants to collapse on his bed and have a decent night sleep. He tries to come up with the right words to describe the acute terror and convey the panic, but the words don’t come to him.

He takes a breath, and lets it out into the phone.

“No, but okay.”

When he hangs up he tries not to think too much about the fact he’s alone.

 

.

 

The show goes on. Life continues, though he's still isn’t sure how much of it he’s living.

They film the rest of the season and even start plotting the new season of True Crime.

He keeps busy, edits whatever Brent sends his way, and even participates in some videos for the main channel.

The months pass, the show continues- grows even, and sometimes he finds himself watching the viewed number climb, wondering how any of this works, why anyone watches: how so many people are interested in the paranormal, and what that even means.

“It’s weird isn’t it,” Shane says, one of the times he’s caught Ryan watching, and Ryan jumps a little at his voice.

“That’s one word for it,” Ryan says, eyes moving slowly from the growing number on the screen to meet Shane’s. “ _Amazing’s_ another one, though.”

Shane shakes his head, but he’s smiling, and Ryan- Ryan doesn’t know what to do with that.

 

.

 

Time stops, starts, stops, rewinds.

Plays back Shane’s smile at the Sallie house. Trips up and rewinds the adventure on the doll island.

Dreams become memories when they’re not nightmares.

 

.

 

Goatman’s bridge is, to put it simply, not what Ryan was expecting.

They arrive on site right as the sun sets, and Ryan occupies himself with setting up the cameras, trying to ignore the prickling he feels on his back as it faces the bridge, and the familiarity of the dark woods and swaying trees.

Shane finishes setting up before Ryan does, says, “One per season. You ready, Bergara?”

The wind blows against his back, the trees rustle above, and when he looks up he sees that Shane’s smiling.

Ryan nods, tries his best to repress a shiver, “One per season.”

Shane laughs.

 

.

 

Ryan dreams in shadows. In distant figures and hidden grins, and something always too close in the dark.

He hears whispers, voices in the wind he can’t quite hear, and he tries to follow them, to make sense of them and decipher. But then he’s spiraling, and the wind is laughing, and suddenly there’s a cliff among all the trees. The wind doesn’t just whisper, it pushes and pulls until he’s a step away from falling, screaming for his life.

The voices laugh, the shadows pull while the wind pushes, and then he hears a voice in his ear, clear where everything else has been quiet.

 _Run,_ It says, calm and quiet and simple amidst the rustling trees and howling winds.

When he wakes the room is too cold and his heart’s beating all around his chest.

 

.

 

“C’mon demon!” Shane shouts, kicking at the air, smiling, enjoying every second, and Ryan tries his best to ignore the wind at his back, “my friend Ryan’s just _dying_ to meet you!”

Ryan hisses and leans closer, says, “Oh my god, shut up! You’re insane!” sighs when Shane only laughs.

Eventually Shane gets tired of only shouting, and so they settle on the bridge and pull out the Ouija board. Shane snaps his head up, smirking and with a new light in his eyes, and suddenly Ryan doesn’t have any words.

 _Watch this,_ Shane mouths, and Ryan braces himself.

“Hey, Demon,” Shane says, laughing, because he’s always goddamn laughing like a madman, and Ryan doesn’t know what to do with him or with himself, “tell us your name, or it’s my bridge now!”

The last word is a roar, a challenge, mockery aimed towards a demon in their territory: in the dark.

The wind blows up Ryan’s back again, cold and fresh: a warning, he’d say, but-

The trees rustle overhead, and nothing speaks up or out, but the goosebumps on Ryan’s back begin to rise.

Shane’s smirk grows, and with it his laughter, and it’s contagious, really: Shane and laughter, and the suicidal intention of messing with something older than their bones and more raw and dangerous than they claim to know.

 _Shane_ is contagious, Ryan thinks, watching as he screams, “It’s my bridge now, demon! You coward!” And Ryan falls in, wheezes out one laugh, and then another, until the warmth of Shane’s smile overshadows the cold of the breeze blowing up against his back.

“You know what, fuck it,” he starts, “I’ll throw myself in there.” Something in him sparks when Shane’s smile widens, whether out of surprise or intrigue he doesn’t know, and Ryan leans back over the Ouija board, meets Shane’s eyes, and lets the worry and fear and anger ignite.

“If you don’t tell me your name, it’s mine and Shane’s bridge!”

Shane meets his eyes, every part of his face twisted up into laughter, and Ryan thinks maybe, maybe he wants to stay like this forever, and then Shane is yelling, “It’s our bridge now!” the words accented with a laugh, and the whole night feels alive with this: with them. With electricity and risk and the hairs on the back of Ryan’s neck standing up at every cold breeze, every wind whisk that resembles a word.

Ryan laughs too, blends his wheezes in with Shane’s, and tries not to let himself think too much about all, about any, of this.

Ryan yells and Shane shouts, and wherever the demon is said to be is filled with their laugher and newfound claims.

Later, in the aftermath, because there’s always an aftermath, a recovery from the storm, regret for past mistakes, while they’re both packing up the car, Shane says, “You know, we should get a drink,” nonchalant and still packing up the trunk.

Ryan glances over and wonders if it’s a forced calm, or if Shane is still riding the high. It could just as likely be either.

Another breeze blows past, and belatedly Ryan wonders if Shane remembers their talk in the office months ago, both bored out of their minds and too tired to properly function. He almost wants to say; _do you remember when we first really talked?_ Or, _I’ve been telling you about demons and I think it’s your turn._ Or even, _you know my reasons behind demons what are yours for loss?_ But he doesn’t trust his voice enough not to shake or stutter, so he stays quiet.

It doesn’t have to mean anything, the drinks, probably. Nothing more than fighting the fading feeling threatening to overcome them. Two friends grabbing drinks at a bar: one a laughing madman, and the other a poorly adjusted insomniac.  

So Ryan nods, smiles, says, “Yeah, that sounds good,” and pulls his coat around him closer when a cold gust blows by.

 

.

 

He’s not good with alcohol, he’d been told once. Or well, he’s good at mixing drinks and creating flavors, and he’s even better at drinking them, it’s his tolerance for alcohol that’s not so good.

“Ah, so you’re a lightweight,” Shane says, nodding, “that explains, _so_ much.”

Ryan coughs and places his third beer on the bar, holds up a finger, “Or,” he says, only a little affronted, “a very fast drunk.”

Shane laughs at that, and Ryan lets the pride inside of him stir a little at it.

“Okay,” Shane relents, “let’s go with that.”

“I don’t get you,” Ryan starts, before he can stop himself, alcohol already flooding through his veins, doing nothing to stop the ever-pressing curiosity, “aren’t you ever curious about the paranormal?”

“Nope,” Shane says, lips popping around the _p_.

Ryan frowns and leans in, “Do you really not think there was anything on that bridge tonight? Because I swear I-” his voice fades, lets the sound of the television above him and grunts of pool players behind him overtake it while he organizes his thoughts about cold breezes and bumps rising on his back.

“I felt something, dude. I swear,” Ryan finishes, and watches as Shane sighs and takes another drink.

Shane sets the bottle down and meets Ryan’s eyes, serious where he was joking before.

“Ryan, I’m telling you. It’s all in your head. Nothing was on the bridge beside you and me, baby!” Shane leans back in his chair, still smiling, and Ryan has half a mind to tell him that his face is going to stick like that if he doesn’t change it.

“So, repeat after me,” Shane says, “no demons.”

“No demons,” Ryan echoes, and wonders whether he’ll be able to sleep tonight.

 

.

 

The ground is invisible beneath his feet. Wind blowing against his back and curling against his front, burning his eyes with each gust.

In the distance, something laughs.

Ryan squints his eyes trying to keep out the burning, screams, “What are you?” Thinks, _leave me alone,_ thinks, _fuck this,_ asks, “What do you want?”

The wind blows harder and he can feel it cutting at his arms and legs through his clothes. He closes his eyes, covers his face.

Nothing answers.

 

.

 

Ryan doesn’t sleep, doesn’t want to sleep, can’t sleep. So, he thinks instead.

He thinks, _There was something in the Sallie house_. Knows, that’s when this started. He heard the voice once, quick and faint but it was there and that’s all he needs. He thinks about Goatman’s bridge, the cold breeze behind his back almost pushing, and the feeling of being watched.

He thinks of wind tearing at him and a voice telling him to run from the oncoming storm, thinks that it - whatever it is - isn’t constant. It has moods. And that doesn’t make sense, none of it makes any goddamn sense.

Ryan runs his hands through his hair, clenches his eyes shut. None of it makes any sense. The dots don’t connect, the timelines don’t match up. There’s no way, not unless-

 

.

 

Time freezes. Rewinds. Restarts.

Dots connect, timelines shape themselves. Thoughts are torn open before they’re altered and replaced.

Cold stops being a feeling and becomes more of a place.

 

.

 

He feels out of his body. Odd around the edges and disjointed as he gets in his car.

The lights of the city shine bright around him, so much so that they’re almost blinding until they disappear behind a thick crowding of trees, and Ryan’s left in the dark with only the light from his head lights.

He drives until the woods start to look familiar, ‘till they start to look like he knows they should, how he remembers - and he almost stops, almost turns around, but instead he clenches his eyes closed for a moment, breathes, starts back up again - and then he parks, takes the keys out of the ignition, but leaves his headlights on facing the forest. He takes another breath, gets out of the car.

He’s shaking again, caving around the edges and collapsing into himself, tearing at what’s left. The ground beneath him feels like it’s rotting, and he tastes ash on his tongue.

He takes a step towards the dark, closes his eyes for a moment and lets the wind tear at him, listens to the trees he’s been hearing in his dreams rustle. He opens them again and walks to the edge of where his headlights reach, where the dark and light meet and he stands in the shadow, compromising, refusing to choose.

He takes another breath, says, “I know you’re in there,” to the shadow, heart rate too fast, feeling too pale, remembering every mark of the dark bags draped under closed eyes.

He feels the wind blow up against his back.

Ryan shuts his eyes, doesn’t want to see, says, “There was something else in that house,”

Footsteps sound from ahead of him, slow and and crunching leaves and dying grass beneath them. When they stop a familiar voice continues on in their place.

“Yeah,” Shane says, almost soft, almost warm, almost human, “me.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed! Comments and Kudos are appreciated. I'm rhymesofblau on tumblr. 
> 
> UPDATE: THERE IS NOW AMAZING FANART TO ACCOMPANY THIS WORK DONE BY daryshkart: http://daryshkart.tumblr.com/post/169234168669/here-i-am-with-one-more-buzzfeed-unsolved-comic


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